Doves

are calligraphy when they fly
down to serious business, which is pretty
far down, farther south than genitals
or pyramids of the Maya jutting
in extremis out of jungle.

Doves are an evolutionary look I like
for being so drab. With minimal feeling
the starch-stiff wings churn, ductile somehow
as coat hangers, beating a blessing out
in the sky, I note, putting to bed
this tired act of witness.

Look, I don’t love doves,
or relate to Latin words like alary.
My hands are up. I don’t like doves.
So what am I saying? That I’m meek
as a dove, living small, and eating
only the tenderest garbage?